


let me jump in your game

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Clubbing, Come Marking, Dimples, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Facials, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23429659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: "Hey," Eddie calls to Richie from the living room couch where he’s in the middle of typing God knows what on his laptop, "do you remember that time you said to me, quote, I want to fuck your dimples, man, I want to come in them, end quote?"After a beat Richie walks in from the kitchen and stares at him. "Do I fucking what?""The night we met, asshole.""The night I was trashed and I was, like, grinding on you and you hadn’t even told me your name yet?"
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 36
Kudos: 307





	let me jump in your game

_Cute, cute, cute_ , Richie thinks and possibly says out loud. The most enchanting man he's ever seen is right in front of him in this club and he would swear, he would fucking swear on his mother's life that he doesn’t think that just because he's drunk—the man is objectively fucking cute as shit. 

They're at the bar, and he's sure he actually does say "Whatcha drinkin’, hot stuff?" out loud, shouting to be heard over the music, because the man’s cheeks turn pink. He's got these enormous, beautiful brown eyes. "On me," Richie adds, waggling his brows. "All over me. Body shots, whatever you want. Lick it up, baby. Lick it up." Richie waggles his tongue lasciviously. 

The man is staring at him, apparently trying to decide whether to laugh or not, and he eventually loses the battle to not laugh, and oh shit his face crinkles up and he's got dimples. Oh, Richie is hooked.

The pretty man wants a whiskey sour. Okay, cool. He's adorable and he's got to get hit on constantly, but he seems weirdly shy, the considerable but nervous energy coming from him seeming to Richie even despite his drunken state like a guy who doesn't come to these places often. A kind of wariness. Richie orders another for himself and downs it. He’s had a few already, but now the night is just beginning.

"So, what's your name, or should I just keep calling you Hot Stuff?" Richie asks, because you gotta start somewhere. “I am looking for some hot stuff, like the renowned wise woman Donna Summer once said, so it works, but… what’s your name?”

"Who's asking?" the man retorts, a twinkle in his eye.

"Richard Wentworth Tozier, at your service." Doing a lame English accent, Richie mimes doffing a cap.

"That's a mouthful," the man says. Oh, perfect.

"You know it, baby." He winks, and the man's blush heats up again. "You can just call me Richie, though. I prefer that to being called 'Dick.'"

"Yeah? Somehow I think you get called 'dick' a lot anyway." The man's face crinkles up again, and there are those big dimples—they're like creases in his face. Richie is fascinated, and actually speechless for a moment—long enough for the dude who's been next to him for a while now to elbow him and ask to buy him a drink, like what the fuck, can’t he see Richie’s busy? Richie's brain takes too long to respond, because the pretty man says to the guy in a voice that carries, while pointing, "Hey, fuck off, _I'm_ talking to him." 

And Richie blinks. 

A guy who evidently did not catch this exchange nudges the pretty man, leans in and says something to him, and a flash of irritation crosses the pretty man's face. He points to Richie, and Richie can hear him say "Fuck off, I'm talking to _him_."

"Getting kinda crowded over here, too many assholes." Richie slams his glass down, the pretty man follows suit, and Richie grabs hold of his forearm, pulling him away from the bar and more into the noise and crush of dancing, sweaty bodies. Okay, yeah, the warmth of that last glass is really spreading through him now, it feels fucking great, and the pretty man is close to him, the music is very loud and the bass is vibrating right through him in a pounding rhythm. It's dark but he can still see the pretty man's big black eyes. He's got dark hair, a trim body, he's several inches shorter than Richie, and he’s fucking hot as shit. "Hope you don't mind," he says to the man over the music. "I always dance better when I'm wasted, so." He proceeds to demonstrate. The man laughs; those dimples. Fuck, it's starting to get warm in here. 

"If this is what you consider 'better,' I'd hate to see you doing this sober," the pretty man says, all _up_ in his personal space now. "I've seen better moves at a middle school dance."

"Yeah, how many middle school dances are you going to these days," Richie says practically into his ear over the music. "You're short enough to get in unnoticed, I guess. Get past those middle school gym-teacher bouncers, with the whistles and shit. Try not to get arrested, man, you don't want that on your record."

"Fuck you," the man says, losing another battle not to laugh, showing his white teeth, shoving at him but then stepping in closer. 

"Fuck _you_ ," is Richie's dazed, delighted retort. He's that wonderful level of drunk where everything feels like a great idea and you're not dizzy yet. "I think I love you. Can I kiss you?" But before he can answer, Richie's already kissing him. 

After a moment of hesitation where Richie's afraid for a split second that the man will freeze or shove him away or something, he instead practically melts against him. And then he's all in, and he tastes like whiskey, and Richie wants to get drunker, on this. He pulls the man's hips flush against his own and can't help grinding against him; the man gasps into the kiss and puts an arm around him, holding on. 

God, Dimples here is so hot, literally hot too, and he's grinding back, and God help him, speaking of middle school dances Richie Tozier, Age 40 is going to dry-hump a stranger on the dance floor if a chaperone doesn't break them up soon.

"Fuck, can I, can I _lick_ you," he finds himself saying into the kiss. 

The man shifts back to grin at him, breathless and flushed, still a little shy under whatever is letting him get humped and made out with in a gay club at this age, and damn but Richie wants to get his tongue in those dimples. 

"Can you _lick_ me?" the man says, pretending to be incredulous, still grinning, arm—oop, now it's arms plural—still around Richie. "What are you, an animal?"

"I'm an animal for you, baby," Richie says, and adds a howl for effect, and the pretty man is really cracking up now. They're still grinding and his dick is absolutely throbbing and begging for mercy at this point, making Richie say, "Fuck, can I lick you though, _fuck_ , I wanna... I wanna fuck your _dimples_ , man, I want to come in them, Jesus, your dimples are so big I could fuck them—"

The man blushes like fucking crazy, still laughing, almost clinging to Richie now, and yeah, he's hard too. "Really, is your dick that small?" the pretty man says. And Richie has to kiss him again, he has to fucking... get him against a wall or something and hump the shit out of him, God—

\-------

"Hey," Eddie calls to Richie from the living room couch where he’s in the middle of typing God knows what on his laptop, "do you remember that time you said to me, quote, I want to fuck your dimples, man, I want to come in them, end quote?"

After a beat Richie walks in from the kitchen and stares at him. "Do I fucking what?"

"The night we met, asshole."

"The night I was trashed and I was, like, grinding on you and you hadn’t even told me your name yet?"

"Yes. The night you were trashed and made out with me and humped me on the dance floor at a gay club like we were at a middle school dance and they practically had to turn on the house lights and turn the hose on you?"

That last bit wasn't strictly true…. "Hey man, it takes two to tango. You were into it. They’d have hosed you too."

“One of the things you said was that you wanted to fuck my dimples and come in them.”

Richie considers. “That sounds like me. Did you make a dick joke back at me?”

“I did.”

Richie gives a thumbs up. “Good. Knew I loved you for a reason.” He starts to walk back out of the living room, to the kitchen.

“Hey, no, wait. So, do you want to do that?”

Richie walks back in and stares at him. Eddie obviously stifles a laugh. “I mean, your dimples are adorably huge but my dick is admittedly too big to fit in them, I’m happy to say, all things considered.”

“Rich,” Eddie says in the ‘stop it and listen to me’ voice, “do you want to come in my dimples.”

“God, yes. Absolutely,” Richie says, walking over to the couch with his hands already hovering at his waistband. Eddie is looking up at him with those big dark eyes and he’s as much a goner for him as he ever was. "Like, right now? 'Cause I can totally do it right now. If you want. Like I'm basically halfway there already."

Eddie tilts his head. “Not right now,” he decides. “I was just wondering if you remembered.”

Richie’s hands go still. “You shit-starting little asshole. You knew I didn’t remember that. I’m lucky I remembered your _name_. Would have been some real gay Cinderella shit otherwise. Going from door-to-door, ‘Excuse me, I met the love of my life last night, have you seen this hot little piece, about yea big,’” he holds a hand up to under his chin and grins at Eddie’s snort of derision, “‘eyes you can see yourself in, dimples as deep as the Grand Canyon. When he ran out of the Malebox at two a.m. and into the night he left behind just this Gucci loafer—’”

“I gave you one of my business cards, Prince Charming,” Eddie returns dryly. “I put it in your pocket and called you a cab. You’ll get semen on the couch, we’ll do it later.”

“See, this is why I keep saying we need Scotchgard,” Richie says, throwing up his hands.

“There’s a strong possibility that Scotchgard is carcinogenic,” Eddie says, implacable. “I am not Scotchgarding our couch so you can get semen on it.” 

“You never let me have any fun,” Richie complains, but he smiles at hearing “our couch.” Sure, Eddie had moved in a year after they’d met, but to hear him tell it he’d been champing at the bit for months because of the state of Richie’s apartment (“I can’t let you live this way by yourself!”), which was ridiculous because Richie had had a housekeeper, for God’s sake. (He doesn’t anymore, because Eddie didn’t trust anyone else to clean their apartment.)

\-------

Eddie’s nightmare of a mother had apparently given him a ton of thoroughly fucked-up ideas about everything under the sun, including disease transmission and bodily fluids, let alone being gay. Plus, apparently when he was a kid some pervert hobo with sores on his face offered to blow him, and that had been pretty scarring even when he hadn’t known what exactly the fuck the guy was asking to do. Even after years of what sounded like fairly intensive therapy, Eddie is still uncomfortable with letting Richie blow him, which is unfortunate because he has the world’s most perfect dick, like, Eddie has to actively dissuade Richie on a regular basis from painting a portrait of it. It’s so pretty, so tasty, and Richie’s heart breaks a little every time Eddie’s brow creases in worry or discomfort or disgust when Richie’s mouth is on him—it would be just for a moment, but still. Richie curses Sonia Kaspbrak’s name, and whoever that pervert hobo was. It’s a minor miracle every time he makes Eddie come that way, and he sometimes actually takes victory laps around their apartment, over Eddie’s protests and demands to return to bed. 

Little dynamo control freak that he is, Eddie’s more comfortable giving than receiving, and that’s fine too. Oh God, yes, it’s fine. 

Richie’s knees are weak and he’s slumped back against the wall in the foyer, one of Eddie’s hands pressing his hips back to keep him from thrusting too hard into Eddie’s mouth, because it seems “later” is “now.” Eddie almost never does anything sexual outside the bedroom, so tackling Richie and getting his jeans down to his thighs as soon as he’d closed the front door and taken his shoes off had been the perfect ambush. 

One of Richie’s hands is flat against the wall and the other is cupping the back of Eddie’s head, because he likes messing up Eddie’s hair and because Richie attempting to guide Eddie’s head simultaneously irritates the shit out of him and gets his motor running. 

“Oh God, Jesus, shit, Eddie,” Richie is babbling as Eddie takes him in deep, working his mouth around him, sweet shitting Jesus. Drawing off, bathing the head of his dick with his tongue, oh that perfect velvety hot glide of Eddie Kaspbrak’s tongue over his very _soul_ , merciless. “Eddie, oh God, oh fuck,” and he starts straining to move his hips, and Eddie presses him back more firmly and draws off tighter than before, drawing a wheezing whimper from Richie who very nearly is sent over the edge by the wet slurping sound as his dick regrettably loses contact with Eddie’s mouth. He doesn’t leak as much as Eddie does when he’s getting head, but he still thinks he sees a strand of mingled precome and spit that disappears when Eddie licks his lips.

Richie blinks down at Eddie, who sits back on his heels as Richie’s hand leaves his hair; Eddie, eyebrows raised, tilts his chin up, and then Richie remembers what this is about and hurriedly wraps a shaking hand around his painfully hard cock, still slick with Eddie’s spit.

“You gotta smile, laugh, something,” Richie gets out, “get ‘em out, quick, I’m close.”

“Say something to make me smile or laugh, then,” Eddie retorts, color high in his cheeks, eyes hot. “You’re a fucking comedian.” 

Richie gives the base of his dick a squeeze because Eddie mouthing off at him is threatening to make him go off early, but if it’s not in Eddie’s dimples it’s missing the point, although he definitely sees the appeal of doing this over and over until he says something that makes those dimples appear. When Eddie made his lips into a thin line of disapproval, he got dimples that were tiny little indentations for a second, but that was not the same thing and given the choice Richie did not want to come in the Annoyance Dimples when he could come in the Richie Made Me Laugh Dimples. “Do I look like I can just pop off a joke right now, I’ve got my dick in my hand and I’m about to come all over my boyfriend’s face.”

“Not ‘all over,’” Eddie says, and Richie has to pinch the base of his dick again because he has a vision of Eddie’s face absolutely covered in his come, dripping from and sticking to his dense black lashes, spread over the long planes of his cheeks, gobs of it on his slick narrow pink lips, on his tongue, on his chin, even his neck. 

“Nnngh,” Richie gets out, wincing.

Eddie snorts, and of course he can practically read his mind. “Come on. I _might_ let you do that to me if you unlock this level. Come on, Rich. Come on,” he demands, and Richie looks at this hot little piece on the floor of their foyer, big brown eyes boring into his like _I fucking dare you_ , color high in his cheeks, the faster rise and fall of his chest and the bulge in his jeans the only things betraying the fact that Eddie fucking loves this as much as he does. Eddie’s small, strong hands clench and unclench on his thighs. 

“ _Fuck_ I love you,” Richie finds himself gasping, startling a laugh out of Eddie, and there are the dimples, and heart pounding in triumph, Richie’s jerking himself faster, panting, “I love you so fucking much,” and the heat in Eddie’s eyes is underscored with amusement, and he’s smiling, his face crinkling, and Richie’s trembling legs threaten to send him to the floor as he comes, _hard_ , Eddie blinking but still smiling, still with his chin up, _letting Richie come on his face and get come in his dimples_. Okay, maybe it is in fact not “all over” his face but Richie through his knee-wobbling, pelvis-weakening haze of pleasure commits to memory the way Eddie looks now before the dimples and the come are gone: flushed, lips and chin slick with Richie’s semen, blinking his big pretty dark eyes. 

Richie sinks to the floor, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to lick his come out of Eddie’s dimples. He crashes his mouth against Eddie’s, tasting himself; Eddie’s already breathing harder, kissing him back immediately, wet and messy. Hand sticky, Richie adeptly unbuttons and unzips him and presses his palm against Eddie’s cock through his boxer briefs, savoring Eddie’s resulting moan into his mouth and the way he pushes himself insistently against Richie’s palm. Richie drags in a breath, parting their mouths just enough for him to shift slightly and glide his tongue up the long dimple as Eddie breathlessly laughs, realizing what he’s doing. 

“Yeah, you said you wanted to lick me that night too,” he says, husky, a little shakily, still smiling, then sucking in a breath as Richie’s hand gets into his underwear with trembling fingers. He squeezes Eddie hard, the very tip of his tongue working into that dimple and licking Eddie clean, lightly pressing a loose kiss to his parted lips and then getting the other side, licking more of his come up as Eddie groans, starting to sound a little helpless now, that loss of control Richie loved bringing about, his hips hitching. Eddie’s leaking, of course, and Richie rubs a calloused thumb over the wet tip of his dick and makes him whimper. Then a hard stroking squeeze or two, the very tip of Richie’s tongue wedging into that dimple— 

“Come gutters,” Richie whispers suddenly against his skin, and Eddie starts laughing while panting. 

“Fuck, Richie,” he breathes, and Richie _sucks_ the remaining come out of that dimple, and Eddie comes with a cry like he’s been punched in the gut, arms wrapping around him. He’s trembling, hot all over, and his boxer briefs are a mess. Eddie presses his face into Richie’s slightly sweaty neck as he rides it out, Richie rubbing his other hand up and down Eddie’s back under his shirt as he calms. 

“You’re getting come all over my neck,” Richie whispers. “I mean it’s my come so it’s not the first time that’s happened, but. It’s going to get all sticky and I know you won’t like that.”

Eddie draws back slightly, looking beautifully mussed; Richie’s heartbeat stutters. Eddie narrows his eyes just slightly, and Richie can see the wheels turning, the steam rising. “Next time, asshole,” Eddie says, and anything that might have resembled a threat in the words is totally negated by how raspy and fucked-out he sounds, “I’m coming on your glasses.”

“Oh, no. Not that. Okay, just don’t get any in my eyes,” Richie says, beaming at him. “The doctor says I shouldn’t get come in my eyes.”

“Shut up,” Eddie whispers, laughing—no, giggling—before he kisses him, imprecise and distracted and perfect. 

“You’re gonna clean ‘em afterward, too, right?” Richie can’t help murmuring into the kiss. “I want to watch that, that would be fucking hot.”

“Yes, I’ll clean your glasses for you after I come on them,” Eddie says with a sigh. He kisses Richie once more, and it’s incredibly sweet, and Richie wishes it would last way longer, but— “Come on. I gotta get these clothes in the washer and us in the shower.” 

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Richie says, getting to his feet with some difficulty and throwing out a salute before hitching up his jeans with that hand and pulling Eddie up from the floor with the other, as they beam at each other with no-doubt idiotic smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Stemming from and based on a discussion with my dear friend [lizifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizifer/pseuds/lizifer)! I was inspired to actually write something and post it by an Ask received by [kaboomslang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/pseuds/kaboomslang) and then I stayed up way too late working on it ~~and then I also worked on it when I should have been doing real work this morning~~! Title courtesy The Doors.


End file.
